There was no easy way to do this, and his window of opportunity was almost shut. He duckwalked ten feet to his right before taking a deep breath.
Up, he sees me . . .
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Miami, Florida
The bullet hit the pavement an inch to his right before deflecting away. Hunt fired at his running target, but, for his size, the man was surprisingly quick and agile. He disappeared behind a concrete barrier. With a quick look behind him, Hunt confirmed Vicente Garcia had made it to the minivan.
A head popped up from behind the barricade, and Hunt let go two shots. The head disappeared. Hunt shuffled backward, keeping his pistol up and pointed toward the barricade. Garcia had his back against the rear tire of the minivan. His hands, dark with blood, were covering a large wound on his leg.
“Put pressure on it,” Hunt said.
“What do you think I’m doing?”
Hunt used his left hand to remove his belt. He threw it on Garcia’s lap.
“Tighten the belt above the bullet wound. You need to stop the bleeding.”
“You have to do it. I can’t let go. I think the bullet nicked an artery.”
For the first time, Hunt noticed a panicked look on Garcia’s face. Blood squirted from beneath his hands. Hunt had seen enough wounds in Afghanistan to understand Garcia didn’t stand a chance if he didn’t stop the bleeding. He was about to holster his pistol to help Garcia when the rear window of the minivan exploded, spraying chips of glass all around him.
Bullets pinged off the sheet metal of the minivan. The shooter was making his move. Hunt chanced a peek, allowing only two inches of his body to emerge from behind the van. What he saw startled him, if only for a moment. The shooter was charging his position and was already halfway there. Hunt tried to duck back but caught a round on the right side of his ribs. The bulletproof vest saved his life and spread the impact, but the round packed enough punch to spin him around and out of cover. Another bullet hit him square in the back, knocking him to the ground and squeezing all the air out of his lungs. His pistol flew out of his hand and skittered out of reach under the minivan.
Hunt forced himself onto his back and frantically scooted backward to position himself between the oncoming shooter and Vicente Garcia.
Hector saw his target fall flat on his stomach but almost immediately move out of sight. He inserted a fresh magazine while continuing to close the distance. He was about to resume shooting to cover his advance when he heard running footsteps behind him. Hector turned to face the upcoming threat, but he was too late. A US marshal tackled him at full speed. Hector dropped his pistol as he was knocked off balance but managed to grab the agent’s waist and throw him off by rotating his hips clockwise and using the marshal’s momentum against him. The marshal lost his footing and fell, rolling a few times. Hector was on him in a flash and grabbed him by the throat. He squeezed hard, digging his thumbs and fingers deep into the man’s neck. The marshal’s eyes bulged, and his hands flailed in a futile attempt to break the viselike grip. Hector slammed the marshal’s head against the pavement once, twice, and the third time, with a distinct cracking sound, he knew he had killed the man.
Hector hurried back to his feet and picked up the pistol he had dropped during the altercation. Fifty yards away, Garcia and the other marshal were escaping. Hector grunted in frustration. The flashing emergency lights of police cars reflected off the buildings. He was out of time. In ten seconds, he’d be surrounded.
He raised his pistol to eye level, aligned his sights on the fleeing men, steadied his breathing, and pulled the trigger.
They were almost there. Another ten yards and they’d be safe. The backups were arriving now. In a minute or two, the area would be secure. Garcia had lost so much blood that he was barely conscious.
“C’mon, old man,” Hunt said, helping him forward.
Garcia’s hair was slicked in sweat, his eyes wild and unseeing. His face was a mask of pain, but he pushed on.
Then Garcia pitched forward like a felled tree. Hunt tried to keep him going, but Garcia’s legs folded beneath him. A round whizzed past and then another. Hunt hit the ground, angling his body so he could see where the shots were coming from.
The tall, bulldozer-like shooter was methodically firing his pistol at them. Another bullet zipped above Hunt’s head, so close it made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Hunt crawled on top of Garcia’s body and shielded it with his own.
As Hector made his escape, he wondered if Garcia was dead. He had struck him at least once, of that he was sure. He wished he could have put a few more rounds into Garcia before the surviving marshal had blocked him. There was no point in staying longer. Police were everywhere, but amid the chaos, they had no idea who was who. The trick was to slip through before they cordoned off the area.
“All elements, this is Bravo Zero-Six,” he said over their comms system. “Retreat back to site three. I say again, retreat back to site three. Follow your personal exit protocols.”
Only six men acknowledged. Not good.
Maybe some had equipment malfunctions? That was wishful thinking. Nothing about this mission had gone according to plan. The opposing force’s response had been stronger and much more effective than he wanted it to be. The Black Tosca wouldn’t mind the losses as long as the objective was achieved.
But he did.
If he managed to get out of this mess alive, he’d go back to his operational plan and review it entirely to look for things he could improve on. Maybe losses didn’t bother his cousin, but they troubled him. Poor dead Pablo wouldn’t let him sleep in peace for a while.
Now wasn’t the time to worry about tomorrow, though. He had to get his men out of the area. Thankfully, they had preemptively stashed cars all over the neighborhood. All were filled with clothes, cash, hotel keys, and new sets of identities.
Hector’s getaway car was a five-year-old gray Honda Civic. The key was where it was supposed to be, in the exhaust pipe. He was about to unlock the door when he felt a presence behind him. He tried to see a reflection in the window, but the angle was all wrong.
“Sir, please keep your hands where I can see them.”
Damn it. A cop.
Hector had already disposed of his pistol and bulletproof vest, but since he was wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of black combat pants tucked in his boots, he couldn’t blame the officer for being suspicious. He slowly turned toward the officer, making sure he kept his hands at his side. They were two streets away from where the ambush had taken place, and there were only a few pedestrians on the street.
The moment he made eye contact with the officer, Hector knew how he was going to play it.
“Please don’t shoot me! Please don’t shoot me,” he pleaded, getting on his knees and raising his hands above his head. “I have five children. Please don’t kill me!”
He closed his eyes like someone expecting to get hit.
“Sir, I won’t shoot you,” the officer replied. “But you need to tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”
“Are you a real cop? Or are you one of them?” Hector asked.
“What? I’m with the Miami-Dade Police Department, sir. You have nothing to be afraid of.”
“My name is Ramón Esposito, and I’m a security guard at the construction site,” Hector explained, hoping it would justify how he was dressed. “I tried . . . I really did.”
“Did you see what happened?”
“The . . . the people who shot at the black SUVs. Some . . . some of them were dressed just like you,” Hector said, pointing to the officer. “They were wearing the same uniforms.”
That got the officer’s attention. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure, Officer,” Hector replied, looking shocked and a bit desperate. He pointed to where the marshal’s bullet had grazed his arm. “They shot me.”
“Shit!” the officer said out loud before turning to his radio. “This is Officer Mancusi. Please note s
hooters may be dressed in police uniforms.”
Mancusi looked at Hector. “Do you know where they went?”
“I’m . . . I’m not sure. I’m sorry,” Hector replied, grabbing his injured arm.
“Do you need medical assistance?”
“Yes, I think so, but some people are in worse shape than me. I can drive myself to the hospital.”
“I appreciate this, sir,” Mancusi said. “But before you go, I’ll need to get your name and contact info. The detectives will want a statement from you.”
That was a problem. The new set of IDs was in the Honda’s trunk, sealed in a plastic bag next to another plastic bag containing a spare pistol and extra ammunition.
“Yes, yes, of course, I’ll be happy to help,” Hector replied, nodding. “Can I get up? My wallet is in my back pocket.”
Officer Mancusi’s demeanor had changed from suspicious to somewhat friendly. Hector guessed he had a foot and a hundred pounds on the officer. With the knife he had tucked against his belt, it would be an easy takedown. Hector almost felt sorry for the officer. He wouldn’t go home tonight.
Hunt strained his neck to catch sight of the shooter. Bolts of pain ripped through his entire back and side as he commanded his body to get up. Police officers had flocked to the area, yelling conflicting orders to the poor citizens unlucky enough to have remained close by. The shooter was gone, had completely vanished, leaving nothing but death and destruction in his wake.
Hunt patted himself down but found no injuries. He did the same with Garcia, who hadn’t moved an inch for the past minute. His hands quickly became drenched in blood. A gunshot wound in the upper right area of Garcia’s back was bleeding profusely. There was no visible exit wound. Hunt gently turned Garcia on his back. Garcia’s eyes stared back at him, lifeless.
One more look around confirmed there was no other immediate threat. Hector didn’t so much as blink before he attacked, catching Officer Mancusi by surprise. The strike was swift and deadly. He faked left—not that it was necessary—but struck from the right. He plunged his knife into Mancusi’s exposed neck. The blade penetrated the skin, and Hector felt it stick into something. He twisted the handle and pushed harder. The blade responded and tore in farther. The scraping of the serrated steel on bone was clearly audible. No sound escaped Mancusi’s mouth as he died in Hector’s arms.
Hector unlocked the Honda Civic and effortlessly dropped Mancusi’s body on the back seat. A curtain moving in the window of an apartment building across the street caught his attention, but Hector decided against investigating further. He jumped in the driver’s seat of the Civic, started the engine, and sped away just as five police officers dressed in tactical gear emerged from a side street between two condo towers. They were one hundred yards behind him, and Hector kept an eye on the officers in his rearview mirror. They made no attempt to stop him, and they were too far away to get the license plate number.
But even if they had, Hector wouldn’t keep the car for long.
Not with a dead police officer in his back seat.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Hallandale Beach, Florida
Leila woke with a splitting headache, but the memories of her kidnapping were vivid. Were the abductors watching her now? The thought of being watched sent a chill down her spine. She lay still, quietly listening for sounds that would betray someone else’s presence.
Nothing.
Sophia. Oh my God. Sophia!
Leila opened her eyes. She was in a dimly lit room, handcuffed to a bed. Her wrists hurt. The handcuffs were too tight and cutting into her skin. There was a sink and a toilet on the opposite side of the room. A video camera poked from a corner of the ceiling. The faint odor of coffee and cigarettes reached her.
So she wasn’t alone. Panic clawed at her. Were they going to rape her? Her lungs tightened, making it difficult to breathe.
The door next to her bed burst open, startling her. A very tall and very big man entered the room. She had never seen him before. She didn’t know why, but even though he was good-looking, the man scared her to death. He sat down at the end of the bed. She recoiled at the thought of him touching her, but the handcuffs prohibited her from going very far.
She was helpless. Tears rushed to her eyes.
“I’m no danger to you, child,” the man said. His English was impeccable but had a pronounced Spanish accent.
Leila was too terrified to reply and didn’t dare look at him, afraid of what she might read in his eyes. She heard him sigh.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
Her heart pounded in her chest, almost suffocating her with anxiety.
“My name is Hector,” the man offered. “I have two daughters. One of them is fifteen years old. That’s about your age, right?”
Leila nodded.
“That’s what I thought. You’re friends with Sophia, yes?”
She nodded again.
“You’re hungry?”
She was. Her stomach growled. But the handcuffs squeezing her wrists pained her more than her hunger. “My wrists,” she said, looking at her handcuffs. “You’re, like, seven feet tall. I’m fifteen years old.”
He laughed. A sincere laugh, she thought.
“You’re right, Miss . . . ?”
She almost told him her name. But she didn’t.
He shrugged. He stood up and pulled a small key from his black combat pants. He unlocked the handcuffs. She massaged her tender wrists and whispered a thank-you.
“As I said, I’m no threat to you, young lady. But I need to know who you are.”
He waited a few seconds. When she didn’t reply, he continued, “What about lunch? You like egg sandwiches? And potato chips?”
“You’ll feed me if I give you my name, is that it?”
He laughed again. “Is that an offer? If so, I accept.”
Now that she had seen him laugh twice in the past minute, she was a little bit less scared of him. Maybe this was just a big mistake, and once Hector learned who she was, he would let her go?
She was being optimistic. She knew that. But she preferred that to the alternative.
Hector left the room and closed the door behind him. It locked itself automatically.
“She’s hungry,” Hector said to the sicario standing guard outside the room. “Go make her a sandwich, and bring some potato chips and a soda, will you?”
“Yes, sir, right away.” The sicario—a man named Emilio—scurried away. Like the men Hector had led during the ambush, Emilio was former military. He had been a military prison guard, so it was fitting that he was now running the Black Tosca’s safe house in Hallandale Beach.
Hector took the stairs to the ground floor and walked to the covered porch facing the ocean. The view was spectacular, with the sun hung high in the pale blue sky and the water echoing its azure color. Back home in San Miguel de Allende, it was all about the majestic mountains and the lush green rolling hills, but, here in Florida, it was the ocean that took the prize. The ocean had always fascinated him. Sailing was in his blood, and he hoped that one day, God willing, he could retire on a nice yacht and cruise the Mediterranean with his family. Hector closed his eyes for a moment to let the liquid sunshine meet his face, but it was the sweet ocean breeze that came sweeping in, blowing cool air through his hair.
Today hadn’t been an easy one. But it had been successful. In five minutes, he was due to call the Black Tosca and report on the day’s operations. He hoped she’d be indulgent. He was unsure, though, about the young girl—Sophia’s friend. Abducting her hadn’t been part of the plan. What would the Black Tosca want to do with her? Hector suspected she wouldn’t be spared, but who knew? It all depended on who she was.
And it was his job to find out.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Miami, Florida
Hunt tried to remove his bulletproof vest, but the muscles in his back screamed for him to stop. The round that had hit him in the back was embedded in the vest, and he could feel the di
mple where it had struck. A paramedic—a young woman with dark brown hair—saw him struggle and offered her assistance. Hunt raised his hand and let the paramedic help him slip out of the vest.
The paramedic lifted his T-shirt and examined him. Her hands were soft and warm and probed gently over his muscular side and back.
“You’ll have a severe bruise or two, but you’ll be okay,” she said. “The vest saved your life.”
She walked away before Hunt could thank her. She had a lot to do.
The area around him looked like a war zone. Now that the shooting was over and the scene was secured by law enforcement officers, paramedics and firefighters were flooding the street. Their professionalism was apparent. They surveyed the scene and moved around to assess who could be helped and who couldn’t.
Most couldn’t.
Hunt walked the street and examined the shells of the still-burning Suburbans. Dead bodies were scattered around, a mix of civilians, US marshals, and black-clad assaulters. After a while, Hunt came to the conclusion that he was the only man to survive the ambush and that he owed his life to John Robbins, who had sacrificed himself to allow Hunt and Garcia the opportunity to escape.
“Special Agent Hunt?”
Hunt turned around. A uniformed police officer was doing his best to catch up to him. He had a cell phone in his hand.
“Are you Special Agent Pierce Hunt?” the officer asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s for you, sir.” The officer handed him the cell phone.
Who would want to reach him via another man’s phone? Hunt thanked the officer and said, “This is Pierce Hunt.”
“Pierce, for God’s sake, where are you? I tried to reach you on your cell.”
Hunt recognized the voice instantly. McMaster.
“Still at the site of the ambush,” he told his boss.
“Are you okay? I heard it’s a real clusterfuck.”
Hunt pinched his nose. He couldn’t argue with that. Then he thought about Zorita, the Mexican federal agent. The traitorous son of a bitch.
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